


not every girl survives the forest

by pointyhearts



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointyhearts/pseuds/pointyhearts
Summary: “not every girl survives the forest. / sometimes she becomes it.” — catherine garbinsky. a snow white retelling.
Relationships: Baatar Jr./Kuvira (Avatar), Korra/Kuvira (Avatar)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	not every girl survives the forest

**Author's Note:**

> written for korvira week. heavily inspired by snow white (of course), sarah pinborough's "poison" and naomi novik's "uprooted." 
> 
> dedicated to my soulmate, user @korviratar on twitter! i love you and am inspired by you always, enough to start writing fic again after four years!

Conquering a man’s heart is, in the end, a straight-forward formula. In the wide and gaping chasm between what Baatar Jr. wants and what Kuvira has left to give him, something like desire takes shape.

He reaches for her hand. Kuvira lets his touch linger with tentative curiosity. _Will it awaken in me the same fire I feel for my homeland?_ she wonders.

When the skies do not shatter and her heart does not shake free, Kuvira removes her hand from Baatar Jr.’s grip. Only a fool would mistake her for gentle, but it is a kind gesture. He smiles at her like a question mark, and Kuvira acknowledges him with her eyes. She can feel her approval become a balm over him. She can see that he mistakes her apathy for bashful affections.

 _Hm_. Inside her, molten lava shifts. It is not enough to move mountains or form craters, but Kuvira belongs to the forest. She is attuned to the earth she longs to shape and rebuild, and she knows that it will take her down whichever path it pleases. Once, she dreamt of a new age that put order to the unfathomable ways of this kingdom, the wrongs that could not be undone but could be prevented from happening to another hapless child.

But the path set aside for Kuvira has changed. It leads, instead, to a kingdom. It leads to Baatar Jr.

 _Prince_ Baatar Jr.

Kuvira smiles. “Shall we take a walk, Your Highness?”

“Please,” Baatar Jr. bows and gestures for her to lead the way. In that single movement, Kuvira feels a rightness cement in her bones: _he is the one_. “After you.”

* * *

When she is crowned queen, she smiles. She is all charisma, a force of nature before the masses. Her husband watches as Kuvira become not the woman he married but the woman to whom he belongs. That night, Baatar Jr. whispers into her ear until she shudders at his touch and shoves her hips against his: _you will rule, and I will wholly be your vessel._

* * *

Many full moons come and go, each one bringing new changes that confound the people and stir the forest on the kingdom’s outskirts. The gnomes report the disappearance of mines that have stood the test of time for centuries. Trolls travel from their caverns and bridges to complain to the queen of their hunger, for the beasts of the earth have grown thin and bitter-tasting. Water witches and fire sprites emerge from their secret places to request the kingdom’s assistance as they recast their now-weak protection spells.

Kuvira’s eyes are steady as she listens to her subjects from her throne. She is every bit the powerful queen, but her advisors whisper from the shadows that the air crackles around Kuvira. The trees seem to bend and sway out of her way, and the forest — an unknowable, living thing that has no god, only the core of all being — is clear and warm in her presence.

 _Magic_ , they breathe. _Sorcery. Witchcraft._

It is only a matter of time, Kuvira knows, before admiration gives way to resentment. You may be benevolent. You may be generous. You may be kind an d clever and wise. The people will love you, but love is forgettable. Love can be thrown out, discarded like the stem of a finished apple.

When at last, the whispers turn into accusations, Kuvira decides she will settle for their fear when love dies, as it often does.

 _Strong kingdoms,_ Kuvira thinks as a villager comes to accuse her of ruining the soil so his crops will not grow, _are only as strong as their leader._

“Never before have my cabbages grown like this,” he declares, holding a thick leaf of cabbage, black like it is burnt. “You are cursing this land, and our king is a fool for marrying a witch!” Her knuckles go white as Kuvira grips the arms of her throne. The cabbage man notices, and repeats with emphasis: “A witch!”

“To speak against the queen is treason, and I—“

“But to speak the truth is no crime,” Kuvira interrupts Baatar Jr. She stands from her throne and marches to the cabbage man with purpose. “You are only saying what the villagers already know. It’s all they can talk about: the mad queen, the cursed queen. The witch with a crown.”

She sees the fear in his eyes, and knows it’s true.

“Would you like to see what your queen is capable of?” Kuvira smiles, charismatic even when she is threatening. Even when she is playing with her food as a cat plays with a mouse in between its claws.

“May I?” Kuvira doesn’t wait for his approval before plucking the ruined cabbage from his fingers. She crushes it between her hands, and feels the magic of the forest in her fingers.Her palm is warm, the smell of moss permeates the air, Kuvira feels like she is at home again, running barefoot and free in the woods before she committed the unforgivable sin and was cast out like the stem of a finished apple —

She opens her hands, and shows him the cabbage leaf made new. Bright green, crisp, a crop worth at least two gold coins. In awe, the cabbage man reaches for it.

Without magic and without mirth, Kuvira crushes the leaf in her hand once more. This time, she does not summon the core of all being. This time, she lets it fall from her fingers to the floor in one ruined, crumpled piece. “To speak the truth is no crime,” she repeats, dark eyes flashing bitterly, “but to disrespect the queen is worth death.”

Before her, the cabbage man cowers and falls to his knees. As he pleads for his life, Kuvira burns with satisfaction. She can feel every eye on her, equal parts respect and fear. She can sense the way Baatar Jr.’s love for her is changing. Gone is the desire to nurture and protect; in its place, something like steel.

“But I am a gracious queen,” she announces. “You will not die today.”

Her advisors hum in approval.

“Take him to the dungeons.” He bursts into tears and cries out for the rest of his cabbages as the soldiers lifts him by his armpits to carry him away. Kuvira waits until he is out of her sight before turning on her heel and taking her seat besides Baatar Jr. once more.

She waits for his response. Not because she wants it, but because she knows a king feels entitled to the right she has fought for her entire life: to have an opinion that matters.

“You kept the secret for so long.” His voice is so soft, like a knock at the door.

“Would you have chosen me for queen if you had known?”

“I knew from the moment we met that you alone could do what I cannot.”

“And what is that?”

Baatar Jr. waits until Kuvira turns to face him before answering, “Be the leader that this kingdom needs.”

* * *

He is right. The smallest of all four kingdoms, theirs is the weakest. Surrounded by the forest on all sides, theirs is the first to be preyed upon by the creatures that creep in the shadows. Kuvira rides into the woods with her hand-selected guard and do what previously could not be done.

She tames the forest.

They cut trees, they drain babbling brooks, they lay traps for the animals that come for the village’s livestock. The people claim their queen as a hero, if only because they know the consequences of criticizing Her Majesty. The dungeons are noisy with hurled threats and insults when Kuvira visits to request fealty in exchange for freedom.

“Give yourself to my cause,” she says, voice syrupy and thick. “Join my guard and serve your kingdom.”

They spit at her feet. “The forest has protected us for years before you, and it would not have turned against us if not for the evil queen.”

The people grow restless as more and more voices join the dungeon. Kuvira uses her magic to enchant the trees, so she can listen to what is said in the false security of the woods. She hexes birds to be her eyes and ears beyond the castle.

It does not take long for the people to learn: only when their hearts are loyal to Kuvira are they ever safe.

Kuvira settles into her throne, now well-used to her weight and her burdens. _This_ is her dream: peace between the forest and the kingdom, so that both may prosper. Both may thrive.

She hears Mother’s voice in her ear when the wind howls: _are the woods truly thriving, or are they merely conquered?_

Teeth gritted, Kuvira sends a message with the wind back: _the forest will change into something new._

_Something better._

* * *

Whispers of the huntsman come long before the huntsman herself appears. _They say she can speak to the trees so that they bear fruit in minutes. They say she has never met a living animal she cannot befriend. They say she is strong and laughs loudly and outdrinks everyone she meets._

Kuvira’s guard reports much of the same. _“_ She has magic, Your Majesty,” he says, knee bent and head lowered. “She travels from village to village and restores homes, protects their land and creates prosperity for the kingdom that lasts for years. It has been several years since she visited ours.”

“And why does she intend to pay us a visit now?”

“Because,” he sounds apologetic, “she has heard of what we do to fight the forest, Your Majesty.”

Kuvira bristles, but barely; only Baatar Jr. notices. “We do not _fight_ the forest. We work with it. We change it. We do what we must to protect the kingdom.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She nods to her guards who are suddenly at his side, emerging from the shadows at the first glance from their queen. “Take him to the dungeon until he understands our purpose here.” She barely registers his protests as she sighs with great frustration, putting a hand to her forehead.

Already, Kuvira hates this huntsman, who has so easily won the heart of her people — something she has fought hard to do. The village rallies around the huntsman and disregards the queen who labors and toils beside them. Do they not see that she rides into the forest with her guard when she could very well sit high and mighty on her throne, detached and far away?

She is a gracious queen. The huntsman is a glorified stranger.

A few moons later, the huntsman arrives at the castle and requests an audience with the queen. Kuvira makes her wait a few days before accepting.

* * *

The throne room is less decadent than the ones Korra has seen in other kingdoms. Rich greens and deep golds that resemble the amber of tree sap greet her everywhere she looks. For a moment, Korra can feel the warm earth beneath her bare feet as she races through the forest, intuition leading her through the unmarked paths that lead to the places that need her most.

When Kuvira enters the room, the feeling is cut through the bone. What’s left is the cool touch of metal. Court life does not suit a huntsman. Huntsmen know only the ways of the woods, and the stories that only nature can tell. Without feeling, it speaks the truth quietly to those who know how to hear it.

The story it tells her now is of a queen who needs Korra desperately. The forest has already told Korra everything. It is the first tale of its kind: a huntsman who chose the hard and glittering stone of a castle, the selfish ways of the kingdom and their petty rulers.

Korra and Kuvira are made of the wind and the dirt and the core of all being. They know that truth comes only from the forest. So why did Kuvira run?

If she is being honest, Korra has come not because she is needed, but because she needs to know. Curious, reckless, Korra wants to meet the woman whose name the forest wants to forget.

When Kuvira enters the throne room, Korra does not kneel. Instead, she bows at the waist with respect and without reverence. “Your Majesty.”

Kuvira’s lips twitch, touched by the ghost of a smug smile. She is of the same forest, and she knows that it does not accept the ways of man. _Your Majesty_ betrays more than Korra means to. _She is more of the world than she knows,_ Kuvira notes. A thrill ripples through her. Korra is more like Kuvira than the queen first believed.

Suddenly, Kuvira is full of want. A part of her — wild, unleashed, belonging to the steady hum of the earth that cannot be stilled — pants with anticipation. With thirst.

Dismayed and unnerved, Kuvira stamps it down. “You are the huntsman the village speaks of. They have been waiting for you.” The subtle rejection still stings.

Korra smiles, an arrogant gleam in the bright blue of her eyes. They remind Kuvira of the river she once bathed in, naked and hair tumbling loose down her back. She shivers, just slightly.

Baatar Jr. is not there to notice. She sent him away to go riding with his council, knowing her meeting with the huntsman must be private. Kuvira, alone, knows that Korra’s arrival is a message from the forest.

 _So now they wish to yield?_ The arrogance across Kuvira’s expression mirrors Korra’s. _It is too late, Mother._

“I didn’t come here for them.” Korra steps closer, undeterred by the warning written clearly across Kuvira’s face. “I came for you. You, Kuvira.”

Korra doesn’t expect Kuvira to scoff. The huntsman is transfixed as Kuvira rises from her throne, striding smoothly down the steps in her riding breeches and the crisp collared jacket of the kingdom’s military. It is a deliberate choice. Here in the throne room, with only the huntsman as her witness, Kuvira is not queen. She is the general riding into battle, and her stomach is steeled for the price of war.

Each step is purposeful as Kuvira walks in a circle around Korra. Sharp eyes study the huntsman: the cropped hair, the scars and bruises of fights won and lost, the hard muscles taut and on display in a sleeveless tunic.

They are roughly the same height, Korra realizes.

She is beautiful, Kuvira registers like a bothersome detail, a necessary evil.

“And Mother thinks you can retrieve my heart.” Kuvira doesn’t need Korra to confirm her suspicions. It is precisely the thing Mother would do. Too much of a coward to do what must be done, too much of a coward to right the consequences of her own decisions. “No one’s ever proved it, you know. It’s a story they tell children to keep them obedient and afraid.”

“Suyin didn’t send me here.”

Kuvira stops in front of Korra and leans in, so close that the tip of those noses are a breath away from touching. “Then who did?” the queen whispers.

Korra does not bend; she does not waver. Her teeth are sharp and her heart is firm, and as she looks at Kuvira, Korra sees not a queen, but a soul who has lost her way. “You did.” She lowers her eyes to Kuvira’s chest, knowing what lies beneath the queen’s full breasts: a heart that yearns for the pure heart of the woods and the simple shade of the tree canopy.

“Tell me you don’t long to return to where you come from.” Kuvira glares at her, but Korra is unafraid. “Tell me you don’t miss being one with the forest.”

Kuvira cannot.

But she _can_ make Korra weak. She can be the cause of Korra’s suffering, the reason for her pain; and she, too, can be Korra’s deliverer. She can force Korra to kneel and confess that the forest is powerful, but Kuvira is more powerful still.

“If you are here for my heart,” Kuvira breathes, “you’ve lost your chance to take it.”

Korra rolls her eyes with a flippancy that Kuvira can’t stand. “I _told_ you, I’m not here for your heart. You can keep that, for all I care. But I’m here to tell you that you can't run from who you are.”

Before Kuvira has the chance to laugh and ask who that’s supposed to be (the discarded child of the trees, the witch with a crown, the monster who took advantage of a weak king and an adoring husband to seize power as it glistened and sung her name), Korra puts a hand to Kuvira's chest. Even with the thick cloth of her jacket as a barrier, Kuvira feels the warmth spread, far wide and far deep.

Angrily, Kuvira curls her fingers tight around Korra’s wrist and yanks it away. “Touch me again,” she hisses, “and I will make you bleed, drop by drop for a hundred years, before I let you die.”

Korra grins — that _disrespect,_ Kuvira can’t _stand it_ — and pulls her wrist free. “I’ll be back, Your Majesty.”

The queen’s heart thuds traitorously in her chest as she watches the huntsman walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! :) this will be a pretty short fic, with less than five chapters taking us through the fairytale.
> 
> the rating will most likely be changed to mature or explicit, but i have absolutely none of this planned and am having fun winging the story.


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